Short story

l felt very nervous when the phone rang… I was anxious. My chest was going up and down, struggling to breathe, and I wasn’t able to lower my heart rate. My hands were throbbing and I wasn’t able to keep my tea in my mug. 

But my mind wasn’t there at that moment. It was in Paris, the spring of 1942. I remembered how the wind caressed my face terribly softly and how I felt my lips chapped. I loved that memory. I loved the March weather. I loved the sun and the rain. I used to love loving everything around me. I remembered how it was not to feel my fingertips or even my toe fingers because of the cold weather. I remembered every second of my morning caffés in Paris. I remembered every second look that made me feel on the top of the world. Those smiley waiters that used any excuse to come and talk to me just to taste, just for one second, how would it be to be me. 

But all that was over. My Parisian life was over, and my normal life as well. He was about to arrive and I wasn’t able to tell him the truth. He was upset. I was disappointed and none of us wanted anything more than leave. So I grabbed all my previously packed things and left. 

I left the house while the phone was still ringing. Knowing that it would be my last chance to leave France. Our last chance to survive.